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No banner from the lonely tower
Shall wave its blazon'd folds on high ; There the tall grass and summer flower
Unmark'd shall spring and die. No more thy bard for other ear
Shall wake the harp once loved by thineHush'd be the strain thou canst not hear,
Last of a mighty line !
THE DEATH OF CLANRONALD.
[It was in the battle of Sheriffmoor that young Clantonald fell, leading on the Highlanders of the right wing. His death dispirited the assailants, who began to waver. But Glengarry, chief of a rival branch of the Clan Colla, started from the ranks, and, waving his bonnet round his head, cried out, “ To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for mourning!” The Highlanders received a new impulse from his words, and, charging with redoubled fury, bore down all before them. - See the Quarterly Review article of “ Culloden Papers.")
THE CRUSADERS' WAR-SONG.
CHIEFTAINS, lead on ! our hearts beat high
Lead on to Salem's towers ! Who would not deem it bliss to die,
Slain in a cause like ours? The brave who sleep in soil of thine, Die not entomb'd but shrined, 0 Palestine !
OH, ne'er be Clanronald the valiant forgot !
spot, Wespared not one moment to murmur "Farewell.” We heard but the battle-word given by the chief, "To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief !”
Souls of the slain in holy war !
Look from your sainted rest. Tell us ye rose in Glory's car,
To mingle with the blest; Tell us how short the death-pang's power, How bright the joys of your immortal bower.
And wildly, Clanronald ! we echo'd the vow, With the tear on our cheek, and the sword in our
hand ; Young son of the brave! we may weep for thee now. For well has thy death been avenged by thy band,
Yet, in the darkness of his fate, alone!
art gone !
All deeply, strangely, fearfully serene,
The Chastener's hand is on us—we may weep,
The sun goes down in beauty-his farewell,
XIV. But other light is in that holy pile, Where, in the house of silence, kings repose; There, through the dim arcade and pillar'd aisle, The funeral torch its deep-red radiance throws. There pall, and canopy, and sacred strain, And all around the stamp of woe may bear; But Grief, to whose full heart those forms are vain, Grief unexpress'd, unsoothed by them—is there. No darker hour hath Fate for him who mourns, Than when the all he loved, as dust, to dust
Her voice hath been th' awakener--and her name
Hark! 'twas the death-bell's note ! which, full
and deep, Unmix'd with aught of less majestic tone, While all the murmurs of existence sleep, Swell’d on the stillness of the air alone! Silent the throngs that fill the darken'd street, Silent the slumbering Thames, the lonely mart; And all is still, where countless thousands meet, Save the full throbbing of the awe-struck heart !
XV. We moun—but not thy fate, departed One ! We pity—but the living, not the dead; A cloud hangs o'er us__"the bright day is done," And with a father's hopes, a nation's fled. And he, the chosen of thy youthful breast, Whose soul with thine had mingled every thoughtHe, with thine early fond affections blest, Lord of a mind with all things lovely fraught; What but a desert to his eye, that earth, Which but retains of thee the memory of thy
1 " I saw him last on this terrace proud,
Walking in health and gladness ;
Not a single look of sadness.
“ The time since he walk'd in glory thus,
To the grave till I saw him carried, Was an age of the mightiest change to us,
But to him a night unvaried.
XVI. Oh! there are griefs for nature too intenso, Whose first rude shock but stupifies the soul ; Nor hath the fragile and o'erlabour'd sense Strength e'en to feel at once their dread control. But when 'tis past, that still and speechless hour Of the seald bosom and the tearless eye, Then the roused mind awakes, with tenfold power To grasp the fulness of its agony !
1 “ The bright day is done,
And we are for the dark."-SHAKSPZARE,
“A daughter beloved--a queen-a son
And a son's sole child had perish'd; And sad was each heart, save the only one
By which they were fondest cherish'd."
-"The Contrast," written under Windsor Terrace, 17th Feb. 1820, by Ilorace Smith, Esq.
Its death-like torpor vanish'd--and its doom,
And thy young name, ne'er breathed in ruder tone,
Daughter of Kings! from that high sphere look And such his lot whom thou hast loved and left,
down Spirit ! thus early to thy home recall’d!
Where still, in hope, affection's thoughts may rise; So sinks the heart, of hope and thee bereft, Where dimly shines to thee that mortal crown A warrior's heart, which danger ne'er appall’d. Which earth display'd to claim thee from the skies. Years may pass on- --and, as they roll along, Look down ! and if thy spirit yet retain Mellow those pangs which now his bosom rend; Memory of aught that once was fondly dear, And he once more, with life's unheeding throng, Soothe, though unseen, the hearts that mourn in May, though alone in soul, in seeming blend;
vain, Yet still, the guardian-angel of his mind
And in their hours of loneliness-be near ! Shall thy loved image dwell, in Memory's temple Blest was thy lot e'en here--and one faint sigh, shrined.
Oh ! tell those hearts, hath made that blest
2 These stanzas were dated, Brownwhylfa, 23d Dec. 1817, and first appeared in Blackwood's Magazine, vol. iii. April 1818.
EXTRACT FROM QUARTERLY REVIEW.
Yet must the days be long ere time shall steal
But thou ! thine hour of agony is o'er,
“The next volume in order consists principally of translations. It will give our readers some idea of Mrs Hemaus' acquaintance with books, to enumerate the authors from whom she has chose subjects ; -- they are Camoens, Metastasio, Filicaja, Pastorini, Lope de Vega, Francisco Manuel, Della Casa, Cornelio Bentivoglio, Quevedo, Juan de Tarsis, Torquato and Bernardo Tasso, Petrarca, Pietro Bembo, Lorenzini, Gesner, Chaulieu, Garcilaso de Veganames embracing almost every language in which the muse has found a tongue in Europe. Many of these translations are very pretty, but it would be less interesting to select any of them for citation, as our readers might not be possessed of or acquainted with the originals. We will pass on, therefore, to the latter part of the volume, which contains much that is very pleasing and beautiful. The poem which we are about to transcribe is on a subject often treated and no wonder; it would be hard to find another which embraces so many of the elements of poetic feeling; so soothing a mixture of pleasing melancholy and pensive hope ; such an assemblage of the ideas of tender beauty, of artless playfulness, of spotless purity, of transient yet imperishable brightness, of affections wounded, but not in bitterness, of sorrows gently subdued, of eternal and undoubted happiness. We know so little of the heart of man, that when we stand by the grave of him whom we deem most excellent, the thought of death will be mingled with some awe and uncertainty; but the gracious promises of scripture leave no doubt as to the blessedness of departed infants ; and when we think what they now are and what they might have been, what they now enjoy and what they might have suffered, what they have now gained and what they might have lost, we may, indeed, yearn to follow them; but we must be selfish indeed to wish them again constrained' to dwell in these tenements of pain and sorrow. The • Dirge of a Child,' which follows, embodies these thoughts and feelings, but in more beautiful order and language :
"No bitter tears for thee be shed," etc. --Vide page 55.
What though, ere yet the noonday of thy fame
1 “The course of true love never did run smooth."